The Connollys came round, and Sam Xu was there as well. We ordered half a bushel of oysters from the 17th Street market, also delicious wild Mexican brown shrimp. The oysters were good, some a little muddy, and not salty—perhaps from a river. I sat up the end with the kids, counting 23-year-old Trudy, and she told me about her thesis, which was on the deceitfulness of laughter, a comparative study of Horace’s Ars Poetica and a modern philosopher whose name I forget. Sounded precious, but Trudy is a delight, getting more and more like her mother. The oysters, and the shrimp, and the bread and salad, and most of the cheese and pate, and much of the champagne and wine, all got eaten. We wrote letters to Santa and sent them up the fireplace, after Sally reminded use we needed to light a fire. I asked for “the usual”, and Terry something similar. Sam had something substantial written on his. Afterwards Amy and I stuff stockings, went to bed around 1:00 a.m.

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